


Breathe

by fine_feathered



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-29
Updated: 2012-11-29
Packaged: 2017-11-19 19:51:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/577016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fine_feathered/pseuds/fine_feathered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is an assassin assigned to kill two men who have recently escaped from the shadowy organisation E.D.E.N. Little does he know that meeting them will lead him on a journey where everything familiar and certain is left behind and everyone has secrets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathe

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Вдох](https://archiveofourown.org/works/865487) by [SpiritHallows](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpiritHallows/pseuds/SpiritHallows)



 

There was a faint squeak as the leather gloves were tightened, capturing the impression of the man’s delicate fingers against the glossy fabric. His fingertips traced over the side of a long silver case, slowly, lovingly, an old and faithful friend.

 

They stopped momentarily to smooth over the clips, releasing them with a satisfying click, one after another. With a sigh of air the case was flipped open, revealing the padded lining.

 

The pieces of a gun were laid out before the man; a sleek barrel, a high precision scope and a muzzle break, were the largest features of the dismantled rifle. With practiced ease the man started piecing the gun together, with quick, efficient movements. Soon a large sniper rifle was laid out, a long sleek weapon that gleamed in the dim light of the abandoned warehouse. Leaning the gun against the wall the man walked over to an old wooden chair and dragged it over to the window. Looking to his wrist, the golden hands of his watch read 11:44, twelve minutes more and he would take his position.

 

He sat down in the chair and put the heavy gun on his lap, checking the magazine to ensure that the five metallic yellow bullets were securely in place. Pushing the magazine back in, he sat in silence.

 

He inspected his watch again. 11:54.

 

Standing, he glanced out of the frosted glass windows, peering down at the quiet city street. Sunlight glinted off the fountain at the centre of the plaza. Around it pigeons milled about, momentarily disturbed as a woman in a trim black suit walked through the flock. The thick bars on the window cut his vision into slices, marking the different zones, blind spots and vantages for when he had to take the shot. Pushing up the sleeve of his trench coat he looked at the mother of pearl face once more… 11:56.

 

A bus stopped at the side of the road, a plain aluminum vehicle with a blue and red stripe painting the outside, like some oversized tube of toothpaste. Two passengers stepped out of the bus. Pressing his gloved hand against the glass, the man watched them carefully. They were both male, one a little taller than the other. They fitted the description.

 

Undoing the latch of the window the sniper pushed the pane open, forcing it up despite the squeak of protestation. Fresh clean air flooded the dusty room, clearing the sniper’s lungs and invigorating him with the chill bite. Leaning to the side he scooped up the rifle, using the bars of the window to rest the rail against. Taking in a deep breath the man fell into his stance, tucking his arm against his hip and letting his trigger hand rest against the stock of the rifle. Pressing his eye against the scope he gently angled it downwards until the fluorescent green crosshairs of the sight hovered above the shorter man’s head.

 

He moved his hand slightly, finger coming to rest against the cool curve of the trigger. The sight followed the man’s movements as he walked across the square with his companion. The sniper waited, staying calm, waiting for the right moment. The sun bathed the man’s face, highlighting the freckles that smattered his cheeks and nose, as well as highlighting his long lashes. The taller man stepped forward, blocking the crosshairs with his shoulder.

 

The sniper frowned but relaxed again as the pair sat on the fountain’s edge. The taller target looked tense. The sniper watched as he looked over his shoulder and ran a shaking hand through his thick brown hair. The shorter man’s lips quirked up in a smile as he patted his companion’s back, saying something the sniper couldn’t hear.

 

This was the moment he had been waiting for.

 

He moved the sight, the crosshair painted itself in lurid lines over the man’s forehead.

 

_…breathe…_

Carefully he started to lend more weight to his finger, feeling the tendons flex as he began to compress the trigger.

 

The taller man went rigid, his lips parted with a shout. Alerted, the man in the crosshairs stilled and he looked up, eyes fixing themselves on the sniper’s position.

 

Green eyes stared at him through the scope. The sniper’s finger slipped from the trigger, so unsettling was the gaze. The hue of the man’s eyes was brighter than any neon sign or that of a green beer bottle sitting in the sun’s rays. They burned like two jade flares.

 

The sniper felt a cold dread run through him, a chill that coated his skin and made him hesitate for the barest moment. In that time the pair stood and ran, sprinting across the brightly lit square and into a street protected from view by a dilapidated skyscraper.

 

Cursing his moment’s hesitation, the sniper withdrew his rifle from the window and fell to his knees to quickly dismantle it. Within moments the rifle was in pieces and slotted back into its silver case.

 

The sniper fled the room, tails of his trench coat snapping at his legs as he ran down the stairs, avoiding the cans and other detritus of the homeless as reached the bottom. Darting out the door the sniper took a sharp left, intending to cut the targets off by using a shortcut.

 

The sun beat down on his back, making sweat bead on his forehead. When he rounded the corner of the street the pair had fled down, it was empty, but for a young family with a blonde girl swinging from the hands of her parents.

 

The sniper clenched his hands but turned and walked away, retreating for the day.

 

+++

 

It hadn’t taken long to track them again. He was the best at what he did after all. They were in the same city, not far from the square he had sighted them in. His hand went to his pocket, feeling the capped syringe lying in wait. From his other trench coat pocket he took a small silver pin and slotted it into Room 41’s lock. The scratched Lockwood proved little challenge, as with a few deft twists of his wrist there was an audible click. Carefully the assassin stood, withdrawing the syringe and taking the cap off with his free hand, carefully putting the clear plastic away.

 

Placing his hand on the doorknob he slowly turned it, adrenaline spiking in his blood. The fluorescent light from the hallway sliced into the room, highlighting the foot of a bed. Silently he crept into the room, cautious to position his weight, testing the carpeted floor for any wayward creaks.

 

The hairs rose on the back of his neck, making the man pause. His ears strained to pick up sounds in the relative quiet, but he only heard the wail of a siren racing along the road beyond the window.

 

Pain, hard and blunt blossomed on the back of his head, causing him to stumble and fall to his knees. He gripped the syringe, thumb on the rest of the plunger as he swung his arm in an arc at the assailant behind him. An arm wrapped itself around his neck, the hard line of the man’s forearm pressing against his throat. White spots blossomed before his eyes; and his hand went slack, dropping the syringe. Two ghostly green points of light hovered in the darkness, watching dispassionately as he slipped into unconsciousness.

 

 

He awoke to two voices bickering above him and something tight bound around his wrists that cut painfully into his skin. He schooled his breathing, as though still in the stupor of sleep. 

 

_We have to kill him Sammy. It’s either him or us._

_Maybe…maybe if we just talked to him, made him understand–_

_Understand what? He’s a hit man, dude. Does he look like the kind of guy who leaves a job unfinished? We can’t outrun him, he’s found us twice in one day._

 

There was a long, deep, sigh. _“We can at least try.”_

 

A toe nudged painfully into his ribs. He let his lids flick open, staring up at the green eyed man. Stiffly the assassin sat up, folding his legs underneath him.

 

“Good you’re awake,” the man murmured, “We took off your trench coat, that thing was lined with weapons. How the hell do you carry all of them without setting off every metal detector in a five mile radius?” Rubbing a hand over his stubbled chin the man smirked, “Sammy here doesn’t think we should kill you. Sanctity of life or some crap like that.”

 

The assassin’s lips thinned as he wriggled his hands, testing the strength of the rope bruising his skin.

 

The jade-eyed man growled out an expletive, before turning sharply to his companion. “This is your idea Sam, you get him to talk,” he said.

The taller man walked over and squatted in front of the assassin, bringing him to eye level. This man’s eyes were hazel but did not share the same intensity as the other, though they too glowed with a subtle light.

 

“I’m Sam, that’s my brother Dean. What’s your name?” Sam asked, voice softer than his brother’s blunt way of speaking, whilst he clasped his hands tightly in front of him to hide the quivers coursing over his skin.

 

The assassin quirked a brow as he looked down at the large hands before answering, “My name is Castiel.”

 

Sam breathed out a sigh of relief and Dean merely grumbled and sat on the edge of the bed, a little annoyed at his brother’s success.

 

“Do you know why you’ve been assigned to kill us?”

 

Castiel shrugged his shoulders, cold blue eyes boring into Sam’s, making the larger man squirm under the scrutiny. “Why would that matter? I’m a soldier; I have been trained to terminate the targets assigned to me. I’m not told superfluous details.”

 

Standing up from the bed Dean’s eyes shone with anger, jaw clenched so tightly that the little tendon in his cheek pressed against his tanned skin. Raising a hand Dean glared down at Sam, “See? Didn’t I tell you? People like this can’t be reasoned with. Let’s get it over with and move on.”

 

Shaking his head Sam looked up at Dean, gaze strangely soft and pitying, “And do what they created us for? I thought we were going to _escape_ Dean, not play into their plans.”

 

Castiel tiled his head at the strange words, running them over and over in his mind, trying to gain some insight. When none was forthcoming he asked against his better judgment, “What do you mean?”

 

Dean brought over a plastic garden chair from the stained wooden table and sat himself down in front of Castiel. Sam took a step back, choosing to stand next to Dean.

 

“Does ‘Project Lazarus’ mean anything to you?” Dean asked, heart hammering in his chest. Despite everything he couldn’t help but want to trust someone, someone other than the one human being standing at his shoulder.

 

Shaking his head, Castiel probed for more. “What is it?”

 

Dean looked up at Sam for guidance and using the distraction Castiel let a tiny blade slip free from a sewn patch in the cuff of his suit jacket, letting it slide through his palms and into his fingers.

 

Slowly he started to cut through the rope, a thin, frayed thing.

 

Exhaling through his nostrils Dean leaned his elbows on his knees, bringing himself marginally closer to Castiel. “Sam and I aren’t what you’d call… _organic_ humans. We’re more of the test tube variety.”

 

The rope started to give way, “IVF?” Castiel asked, in a deadpan tone, lathered with skepticism, “I doubt that’s why I was assigned to terminate you.”

 

Dean rolled his eyes, “Just use your imagination then, I’m sure you could put the pieces together if you wanted to.”

 

Another section of the rope gave way, only a few moments more, “So you’re not human then, not really.” Castiel supplied, eyes narrowed, breathing in deep the smell of cheap disinfectant overlaying the sharp scent of ammonia.

 

Sam’s hand clenched on the back of Dean’s chair as he glanced away, shoulders a tense line under his heavy brown jacket. Dean spied him from the corner of his eye, biting his lip before saying;  “My brother here thinks we’re human…although we’re not brothers in the conventional sense of the word either…”

 

Castiel twisted the blade slightly pulling his wrists taut so that the fibers of the robe suddenly began to unfurl, quicker than even he anticipated. The rope snapped, Castiel lunged forward, grabbing Dean’s collar and dragged him from the chair, pressing the blade against his throat. He pushed down, making a thin cut into the skin, allowing blood to trickle red and sticky down the curve of Dean’s neck.

 

Dean’s eyes went wide and his hands wrapped themselves around Castiel’s wrists, hot fingertips pressing into his pulse. Castiel’s breath was ragged in his throat—one long deep cut, and half of the assignment was done.

 

Castiel pressed harder. More blood welled from the cut, bathing the fluttering pulse in Dean’s neck scarlet.

 

“Please, please don’t Castiel. He’s the only family I’ve got,” Sam whispered, torn inside with the indecision of trying to pry the assassin off his brother or reasoning with him.

 

Dean stared up at him, lips pulled up into a grin, flashing his pointed canines. “Go on. What are you waiting for? Prove me right.”

 

_…breathe…_

_…just make the cut…_

His heart palpitated in his chest, missing a beat painfully, jarring his normally cool reserve. Dean’s body was scalding beneath him, a barely contained furnace on the point of raging out of control.

 

The blade in his hand was cold, the edges bit into his calloused palm. Castiel held his breath as he drew the blade away and sat up, allowing Dean to hurriedly crawl out from under him.

 

The knife dropped numbly from his fingertips, staining the grey floor with a red spot that blossomed at it spread out into the cheap fibrous carpet.

 

“Why did I do that?” Castiel murmured, voice weak and quiet, so unlike his usual tone that it startled him. Glancing up from under his thick black lashes Castiel watched vacantly as Sam wiped a cloth over Dean’s throat. Already the cut was healing, puffy pink flesh taking the place of the angry swollen wound.

 

Absently Castiel stood, fingers straightening his tie as he watched the healing process. The blood scabbed over the line but Dean soon scratched it off irritably, revealing the unblemished skin beneath. Castiel’s eyes widened, the implications of Dean’s admissions from before began to come together. The taste of bile cloyed his tongue and lightheadedness plagued him as his mind skipped to one science fiction trope to the next.

 

Dean watched him warily from the corner of his emerald eye, “So what are you going to do now Cas? If you aren’t going to change your mind and kill us that is.”

 

For the first time, in a very long time, he didn’t know. He had disobeyed orders; there were no protocols to follow. “I don’t know.”

 

Dean scoffed, crossing the room to reach Castiel’s trench coat, which had been thrown onto the rose patterned sheets on the bed closest to the window. “Yeah, thanks for that,” he supplied as he handed over the trench coat.

 

Numbly Castiel took it from Dean, fingers burrowing into the stiff coat. He slipped it on, a familiar, soothing action amidst the madness he felt he was descending into.

 

He stood in the motel room, handgun in his pocket, facing his two targets. Despite that, he turned away and walked out the door, the feeling of their collective gaze tracking him on his back. From the corner of his eye he spied Dean’s hesitation; his hand traced over the grip of his gun ready to shoot but relaxed again when he saw Sam hold his brother back with a firm hand against his chest. His mind was blank, a numb dull thing in his head, as he was unable to reason why he walked away. It was as though his body already knew, he was just too slow and hadn’t caught up to his subconscious. When he stepped outside onto the footpath he breathed out a plume of the night air and looked up into the starless sky, lit by a multitude of neon signs that vied for the sinners of the city.

 

Castiel’s phone trilled, startling him from his reverie. Taking it from his trench coat he looked at the contact’s name only to be supplied with a protected number. Huffing he accepted the call and put the smooth plastic to his ear.

 

“Castiel?”

 

The voice was feminine, collected and smooth – unmistakable. “Anna,” he spat the name into the receiver, “I thought you had gone rogue.”

 

The irony of his own deception gnawed at his stomach as he heard a pregnant exhale on the other end of the line. “Please Castiel, I want to meet, I can’t do this anymore. I want to come back. I know you’re on good terms with Michael, you can pull strings.”

 

Stepping off the curb Castiel’s shoe splashed into a brackish puddle, “Fine, where do you want to meet?” His other hand delved into his pocket, feeling the smooth Glock hidden within, with the large cylinder on the end, the silencer.

 

There was a pause before she answered, “Skye Lane.”

 

A memory of the street came to mind, of a gloomy ill used pathway infamous for stabbings.

 

“My, that is private, are you sure you aren’t asking me to kill you?”

 

Bitter, condescending laughter erupted into his ear, “It is all you’re good for isn’t it? Just an obedient dog with no thought of his own. Either way, you talk to Michael for me, you kill me, both helps.”

 

With that, the line went dead.

 

Castiel clicked his phone off and rolled his eyes. As he crossed the street he peeked over his shoulder at the motel room his targets occupied. The lights were still on, casting the shadows of their bodies against the thin curtains. They had better be gone before he got back; otherwise he was going to finish the job. Foolishness was a trait he could not abide in himself or in others.

 

Hand lying against his suppressed pistol he walked to his destination, passing only a few of the night’s inhabitants who shied away from him, instinctively knowing a predator.

 

Her bright red hair shone under the streetlight, turning it to molten amber. “Hello Castiel, it’s been a while.”

 

Withdrawing his pistol he jerked the barrel towards the alley, “It has,” he replied, stalking towards her.

 

Under the light he could see the dark rings beleaguering the skin around her eyes, the twitchiness as she stepped away from him and towards the alleyway he indicated. “Straight to business is it?”

 

Castiel’s gloved index finger rolled over the grip and to the trigger, silently answering her question.

 

She kept her hands at her sides, fingers loose, shoulders slumped, at complete odds with Castiel’s memory of the woman he had partnered with on missions years ago.

 

A tall brick wall signaled the end of the alley way and she turned on her scuffed shoes to face him, her lip trembled but she raised her chin, looking down on Castiel over the slant of her nose.

 

Despite himself Castiel asked the question buzzing in his mind, “Why did you turn Anna? You were so loyal, passionate.”

 

Anna arched a brow and crossed her arms over her chest, “Because I discovered something about E.D.E.N that turned my stomach.”

 

One of Anna’s pale hands strayed towards her throat where she pulled out a simple silver crucifix rosary. She rolled the beads between her fingertips, disguising the tremble that possessed her.

 

“What was it?” Castiel kept his pistol fixed on her chest; ready to shoot at any moment.

 

Anna shrugged and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “A few months before I turned I was asked to train ‘new recruits’. I taught them the basics: gun safety, pressure points, and places to aim. But then…after a couple of months my superiors revealed to me that these two men weren’t what they seemed…”

 

Her fingers tightened on the rosary, her eyes moistened with rage, “They weren’t even human, they were monsters. They wanted me to integrate their ‘abilities’ with the training…I couldn’t do that, they were abominations.”

 

Castiel’s lips peeled back into a mix between a smile and a grimace, “And murdering people for a living isn’t abominable?”

 

Anna trembled with her fury, the tempered assassin from years before flashing into being in the straightened set of her shoulders, “It is not a sin to kill enemies…and so I decided I would wash the world of their presence.”

 

A beat of hysterical laughter flecked her lips with spittle, “But somehow they _knew_. _Knew_ that I was coming for them. I had to run then…but I want to come back, please Castiel, do you understand why I did it now?”

 

Castiel cocked his head to the side as if considering it then pulled the trigger. The bullet ripped into her chest, throwing her back against the brick wall. The green and yellow graffiti was stained with red as she slid down the bricks, gasping like a fish drowning on air. She slumped to the side when she reached the floor and rolled onto her back, breaths coming short and quick as she breathed through the agony.

 

Placing a foot on either side of her writhing body Castiel rested on his haunches, hovering over her. “I think I’ve met these men you speak of.” He began, the end of the silencer toying with the beads of her rosary that glistened in the half-light of the city. “And they do not inspire such disgust in me, as you do, with your mad ravings of monsters.”

 

Moving the gun over her chest he pressed it to her temple, her frightened navy eyes tracking the gun’s progress, “We, Anna, are the monsters. They are free of sin.”

 

Another muted shot and Anna’s eyes stared vacantly up at him.

 

Standing, Castiel absently wiped a spot of blood from his cheek, smearing it on his gloves. He left her body in the alley; the police would chalk it up to a robbery gone wrong.

 

His feet followed the path he had previously taken, leading him back to the motel where Sam and Dean had stayed. They should be gone by now, out of the city even.

 

They had some months of training, not enough to make them into professional killers, but it should have instilled some sort of sense into the boys.

 

Castiel slipped through the open front door of the motel and past the dozing man sitting at reception. Anna’s words replayed themselves in his head, that Sam and Dean were monsters, that the assassins had some strange code that made them righteous. The wooden door of their motel room stood before him, only the muted sound of televisions emanating from other rooms filling the silence.

 

Their fear betrayed Sam and Dean’s clean hands; the fact that he was alive gave them away as being too frightened to take their first life. Castiel knew the signs, remembered when he had held those sensibilities.

 

A memory, old and nearly forgotten, played unbidden before his mind’s eye.

 

_He was young, seven maybe eight. He followed a man, eyes trained on the back of the man’s legs as he walked through the cement hallways. The fluorescent lights above him flickered, moisture slicked the walls, making them shine. The man opened a door and he followed in as instructed. Inside was Michael, young then, far fewer wrinkles marking his skin. His hard eyes watched him, “So it’s your turn now?”_

_Castiel’s lips parted to reply but was cut off before he could begin by the man that had taken him here, “It is,” came the deep voice._

_Leaning the back of his head against the wall Michael narrowed his eyes at the dark skinned man, “Raphael, he is able to answer me himself.”_

_Raphael visibly hunkered into his jacket, cowed by the younger assassin._

_Castiel at that time didn’t understand why._

_Turning from Michael, Raphael stalked over to a table and picked a small handgun off the scratched surface. Without thought Castiel opened his hands, feeling the familiar weight of the loaded gun fall into his hand. Yet the unfamiliar surroundings, prime amongst them the man bound to a rickety wooden chair, was strange to him. Where were the paper targets?_

_The man in the chair whimpered, his face hidden by a thick burlap sack. “Please, I don’t know what I’ve done…I’m innocent!” He whimpered._

_Raphael ignored the man, but pointed to him with a long elegant finger, “Shoot him Castiel, this is the next step of your training.”_

_The man wailed at the words and his struggles were renewed, “Don’t, please! I’m sorry for whatever it is you think I’ve done, please!”_

_Raphael rolled his eyes, “Now Castiel, I would rather not hear his inane begging for much longer.”_

_Castiel adjusted the gun in his hand, blue eyes darting up into Raphael’s stony countenance, “But he says he’s innocent. Why do I have to kill him?”_

_Leaning down slightly, Raphael’s hand shot out, his palm striking Castiel’s cheek. He winced, feeling the flesh immediately swell but did not allow any other sign of weakness._

_Michael pushed himself off the wall and fell to his knee next to him, brining himself to Castiel’s eye level. “You will do it Castiel, because you have been ordered to. That is all you need to know.” With a fond beatific smile Michael stood, “Now kill him with one shot.”_

_The man began to scream but it was cut short when Castiel gently compressed the trigger._

 

The memory faded away, the present materializing itself. Castiel rested his hand on the door handle. How many innocent people had he killed just because of his orders? He was no better than Anna, a fanatic that was desperate for orders, guidance. The thought filled his mouth with sour bile, he didn’t want that anymore. To be the child beneath a parent’s thumb, another dog on E.D.E.N’s leash.

 

Sam and Dean would show him the alternative. Opening the door he stepped over the threshold.

 

They were still inside, packing their bags but stilled when the door quietly swung open. Instantly Dean put himself between Castiel and Sam, protecting his brother with his body.

 

“Are you trying to get yourselves killed? You should have left by now.” Castiel deadpanned as he walked further into the room.

 

Sam’s brows drew together with consternation, “We’re trying to survive as best we can. We want to live.”

 

Dean’s bright eyes flicked away from Castiel for a moment, as if ashamed at his next admission, “We need help okay Cas?

 

Hanging his thumb off the edge of his trouser pocket Castiel nodded, “I see that.”

 

Pushing Dean gently aside Sam crowded in close to Castiel, his large size eclipsing Castiel, “Then are you going to kill us now? Or is this some game where you want to play with us first?”

 

Slipping away from Sam, Castiel shook his head, “Not exactly.”

 

 

“So, if you’re not here to kill us, are you here to help us?” Dean supplied, gaze dropping from Castiel’s face to watch his toes wriggle into the carpet instead.

 

Castiel took a step forward, chin tilted up as he stepped into Dean’s personal space, making the young man exhale in a shiver. “Would you trust me with your life and with your brother’s as well? I might change my mind.” Castiel’s stomach flipped at the thought, rushing head first into something unknown, more frightening than his first kill. Adrenaline bled into him in a heady rush; why not choose something to fight for? Take control of his life, away from the cloak and dagger organization that was E.D.EN.

 

A defiant gleam entered Dean’s eyes and he met Castiel’s gaze head on, scintillating blue colliding with envenomed green, “Nah, I don’t reckon you will. You’ve already given up two chances.”

 

Castiel licked his chapped lips, tasting their saltiness, “I can get you two new identities, and find somewhere safe for you to stay. It’s procedure to stop an active search for a target after three years.”

 

Dean’s face lit up with a grin and before he realised he was reaching out and gripping Castiel’s shoulder, visibly startling the man. Castiel turned his head slightly, looking at the hand clasping him as though it were some strange spider that had become affixed to his coat. Tiny little freckles spotted the man’s hand, his skin was perfect, no calluses or raised white scars puckering his flesh. Castiel reflexively curled his fingers, remembering the blemishes hidden beneath his leather gloves.

 

With a dramatic sigh Dean let go of Castiel’s shoulder and sat down on the edge of his bed, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles. “At least now I can get some sleep.”

 

The spot where his hand had lain felt hot, burned even but Castiel pushed the foolish notion aside. Instead he tilted his head to the side hawkishly, eyes flicking between Dean and Sam, “How was it that you knew I was coming? Although it was a poorly organized defence, it was premeditated.”

 

Sam lifted a glass of water to his lips, swallowing a mouthful of the lukewarm liquid, “That was my fault. I get these _visions_ about stuff that hasn’t happened yet,” he supplied with a vague wave of his hand.

 

Dean shot Sam a glare from across the room, “I thought we weren’t going to tell people about _that_.”

 

Shrugging, Sam sat down on his mattress and toed off his boots, “Yeah, well, if we’re going to trust this guy with our lives, we may as well tell him the important stuff.”

 

Clearing his throat, Castiel cut the brewing argument short, “Thank you Sam. Dean, is there anything you need to tell me?”

 

Dean winked and then rolled over onto his belly on the bed, tucking his arm snugly under the hard off-white pillow, “Wouldn’t you like to know. Story time is over Cas. Go into sleep mode or whatever it is you Terminators do.”

 

With a satisfied smirk Castiel sunk into a lumpy armchair by the window, watching the neon woman outside flicker as the image alternated between her legs being pressed together, to one leg being kicked out. “You two sleep. We’re moving on in two hours.”

 

Dean groaned into his pillow, hiding his face, whilst Sam merely looked down heartened and sighed as he reached over to turn off the dusty lamp. Long days in a clinical white lab, running tests and sleeping all day seemed a lifetime ago.

 

It was exactly two hours later (3:41 according to Castiel’s watch) when he roused the brothers. The neon sign outside was a muted glow in the room, bathing everything in sickly rouge.

 

Once he was assured that Dean was awake, provided with a sharp swat to his thigh, Castiel retreated to the bathroom to wash his face. Flicking on the light there was a short hum before the fluorescent tubes overhead blinked to life. Castiel leaned his palms on the edge of the porcelain sink, ignoring the brown circles from cigarettes burns. Dark rings circled his eyes, making the blues a startling azure, though nothing near the intensity of Dean’s. His lips were chapped and a cut ran along his bottom lip. Rubbing a finger along the cut the dried flakes of blood flitted down onto the brass ring at the bottom of the sink. A thin layer of stubble dusted his chin and cheeks. The sound of fabric sliding off skin filtered into the air, the flickering light obscuring the skin of his hands, as he wiped some cool water over his face. The man that blinked back at him in the mirror was a stranger.

 

There was a knock at the bathroom door before it opened. Castiel looked up, the shadows of the room cloaking the identity of the person, if it weren’t for the intense spots of green watching him, he wouldn’t have been certain which of the brothers it would have been.

 

“You done?” Dean asked as he padded into the room, hair tousled from his restless sleep.

 

Castiel said nothing as he made to exit the bathroom, but was stopped when Dean wrapped a hand around his bicep. “Why are you going to help us? What is it really?”

 

A dry cynical laugh clawed its way up through Castiel’s throat, he was too tired and too confused to analyse his decisions, “I’ll plead temporary insanity when I’m caught.”

 

Dean’s grip on his arm loosened, but his fingers hovered over his coat. Castiel gently pulled his arm free and left, leaving Dean to stare after him.

 

Castiel’s eyes took a moment to adjust as he walked back into the gloomy bedroom. He could see Sam’s outline packing their few belongings into an old duffle bag. It was only a couple of minutes later and Dean reemerged from the bathroom, cloaked in steam from his shower. He showed no embarrassment as he dropped his towel and started to dress in front of Castiel and Sam. His body was lean, hard lines of muscles catching the scant light and there was a tattoo on his chest, though Castiel couldn’t make out the design. Castiel pivoted on his heel, checking his watch again. Dean pulled on his briefs and then a pair of worn denim jeans before he noticed.

 

“What?” Dean queried, word partly muffled as he tugged a tight black shirt over his head. “It’s not… _normal_ to be naked in front of strangers.” Castiel supplied, tone betraying his annoyance.

 

Dean’s mouth fell open in an ‘o’ but then he shrugged nonchalantly as he kneeled to put on his shoes, “You’re not normal, Sam and I aren’t normal. Why do rules for normal people apply to us?”

 

“Because normal helps you to blend in.”

 

Dean stood and picked up a thick olive jacket that he quickly tucked himself into. Immediately he put his hands into his pockets, as though the room were several degrees cooler than it actually was.

 

Marking the behaviour, Castiel opened the door and walked to the front desk a few meters away. A portly man sat behind it where a small television set was on the counter, from which canned laughter warbled. Sam reached over Castiel’s shoulder, dropping the room’s key onto the MDF counter. The man looked up, eyes squinting into thin lines, “If you’re checking out that’ll be $22.” Castiel reached into his pocket, pulling out a black wallet. Flipping it open he thumbed out one $20 bill and one $5 bill, he didn’t bother waiting for the man to give him the change, and walked out the open door and onto the sidewalk.

 

The small city was quiet, a dog’s barking echoed down the desolate street. Sam and Dean mutely followed Castiel, whose trench coat covered back seemed impersonal and distant as he strode down an alley and finally came to a stop. Pushing aside several cardboard boxes he revealed a long silver case hidden beneath them. A thick chain wound its way around it, securing it to a drainpipe on the brick wall. Brushing aside his trench coat he pulled a key out of his back pocket, then used it to release the case.

 

Dean sighed as he massaged his fingers into his temple in an attempt to relieve the tension headache he could feel looming, “I don’t even want to know.”

 

With that done, Castiel continued to march, assured and confident as he wound his way through alleys, until he came to a side road. A car sat on its own; the street light overhead flickered and fizzed, the bulb dying in its metal casket. Castiel tried the handle, but the door stubbornly refused to open. With an annoyed hum he withdrew his lock pick again and idly inserted it into the lock and a couple of careful twists Castiel tried the door again, and this time it opened. Castiel slipped inside and twisting around pulled up the locks on either passenger side’s door.

 

Dean took shotgun and Sam clambered into the back, throwing the duffle onto the other side of the seat. The stolen car was an old Chevrolet, a black model from the late 60s, her paintwork was scratched, the upholstery stained and fast food wrappers littered the floor.

  
Dean grimaced in distaste, sitting awkwardly in the front seat as he toed the wrappers with his boot as though shooing a persistent little dog. “How could you keep a classic like this? It’s a disgrace.”

 

Castiel ignored him and closed his eyes, feeling the fuse panel to find the wires that would start the car. With a clatter Castiel pulled out a mess of wires, a rainbow of plastic that filled his hands. Yawning, Dean folded his arms over his chest and sandwiched his hands under his armpits.

 

With a grumble the car started and Castiel flicked the headlights on. The light was sallow, turning everything to a sickly yellow as it rolled out of the side street and onto the road.

 

Half an hour passed before Castiel pulled out onto the highway, a large green sign passed them; with white luminescent writing telling them they were heading ‘NORTH’. Dean moved again, he reached out to the dials on the dashboard, pushing the little black knob for the heater all the way to the top. His fingers roved over the buttons and lit words before he settled on the radio dial, twisting it to turn it on. Soft rock warbled through the tinny speakers, the words were hard to hear through the static, but the beat was there, pulsing in the small space.

 

“Man, I love Chevrolets. Especially the early Impalas.”

 

Castiel shot Dean a quizzical look, exhaling through his nostrils as he stared down the highway, watching the double yellow lines zip by them, “And how is it that you know that? If what I’m assuming about you is correct, you haven’t had much exposure to the outside world.”

 

Dean leaned his elbow on the car door, hot fingers leaving clear marks on the window as he traced a bead of condensation. “We heard stuff,” he replied, with a noncommittal shrug of his shoulders.

 

Castiel hummed his acceptance of the evasion and eyed the rearview mirror, noting that Sam was watching him carefully, bright hazel eyes following the way his gloved hands moved along the battered steering wheel.

 

Dean suddenly turned to him, his excitement palpable as his green eyes cut to Castiel’s hands, “Will you let me drive?”

 

Castiel huffed derisively as he leaned back against the leather bench seat and pushed his foot down harder, watching the little ruby needle race up the speedometer. “Have you ever driven before?”

 

Sam quipped up from the back seat and he playfully punched Dean’s shoulder, earning an indignant cry from his brother, “No, he hasn’t. I’d rather not die this morning.”

 

Groaning, Dean pressed his forehead against the window, the cold glass sending a shiver down his spine, “I’ve read up on it —sounds like a piece of cake.”

 

“Not going to happen.” Castiel replied, monotone and immovable. Sensing his early defeat Dean sighed and settled into the seat, cheeks rosy with the warmth, “You know, with a little work, this Impala might turn out to be something special.”

 

Sam smiled in the backseat and relaxed, head tilted to watch the sun rise in cool pastel hues, painting the distant hills in violet and pink.

 

Castiel’s mind wandered as he drove. The hours ticking methodically by as he periodically checked the face of his watch, the hour hand crawling along. His companions having finally fallen asleep, some hours into the drive. He watched Dean out of the corner of his eye. They were both too quick to trust him, boys that only knew about the world through books and hearsay. They weren’t naïve, just desperate. Castiel’s hand tightened on the wheel. Their lives were in his hands. A gun lay in wait on his belt. It would be quick, painless, a relatively merciful execution. His life could go back to normal. He knew nothing about saving people, just killing them.

 

He had no parents; he had been just another grubby faced kid at St Augustine’s orphanage. No one had questioned the suits that had taken him away from the isolated place; so small, so irrelevant, it didn’t even make the local maps. Castiel let his foot off the accelerator, dropping his speed slightly. He never disappointed his trainers; he never hesitated when they told him to pull the trigger, to just

 

_...breathe…_

So what was it about these two lost, not-quite-humans, sitting in the car with him?

 

Dean shifted in his seat, eyes opening slightly to look at Castiel’s profile. The twin eldritch glows watched him for a moment before he fell back to sleep, the side of his lips quirking slightly in a lazy smile.

 

Castiel cursed any gods that may or may not exist, put his foot down on the pedal again and raced north.

 

+++

 

After a few hours Castiel pulled the Impala over into a gas station on the fringes of a small town. The car’s wheels crunched the gravel as it rolled to a stop next to the pump. It was a small operation, the building seemed to be several decades old, water pipes clung to rusted bolts and the paint on the outside flaked, making the name of the gas station illegible. Stepping out of the car Castiel was met with the greasy tang of petrol lacing the air. Flipping open the fuel cap Castiel filled the car, waking Dean and Sam.

 

Dean rubbed the dust from his eyes and twisted slightly in his seat to catch a glimpse of Sam. “You alright back there Sammy?”

 

Nodding, Sam wound the window down, “Where do you think we’re going?” A small white fluffy thing wafted by caught on the gentle breeze. Sticking his hand out of the window Sam upturned his hand, letting it come to a rest on his palm. It was cold and melted as soon as it touched his skin. “Snow?”

 

Dean opened the door of his car and got out, stretching his arms over his head, resulting in a few satisfying pops along his back. More snowflakes fell from the strangely bright grey sky. “Cas, why are you taking us somewhere cold?”

 

Castiel hooked the gas nozzle back onto the pump with a click before turning to address Dean, “This isn’t our destination Dean. I plan to take you both, somewhere _much_ colder.”

 

Dean’s brows drew together, his freckled nose wrinkling at the thought, “Sam and I don’t do well in the cold.”

 

Smirking, Castiel fished his wallet out and headed into the gas station, “I noticed.”

 

A scowl pulled at Dean’s lips as he got back into the car, slamming the door after him. When he looked into the rear view mirror Sam was wearing a bemused smile, one lip curled up slightly to show a flash of white teeth. “I don’t know what you’re grinning about.” Sam’s grin turned into a knowing smirk that set Dean’s teeth on edge.

 

In the building Castiel paid for the fuel in cash, handing his money over to the acne plagued teen behind the counter. Pausing on the threshold of the door, Castiel grabbed a red plastic basket and walked towards the shelves of food. Energy bars, sandwiches, a couple of slices of pie, bottles of juice and water and two bags of salad were thrown into his basket, amongst other foods. A tall revolving display caught his attention. Hats and sunglasses hung off the hooks with little white tabs noting their prices swinging lazily from each item.

 

Turning to look out the window Castiel frowned as the glow of Dean’s eyes radiated from behind the frosty windows of the Impala. Pulling off two random pairs of sunglasses he also threw them into the basket.

 

The teenager looked vaguely annoyed at Castiel’s full basket, till he raised his eyes to meet the icy gaze of his customer. The man jumped and set to scanning the purchases; aware of the steady beat Castiel’s fingers made on the counter as he drummed them impatiently. The items were packed in record time in three brown paper bags. Castiel thumbed through his notes and left the store without his change once more.

 

Noticing the bags in his arms, Dean got out of the car and grabbed a bag off Castiel and mooched through the food, rustling through the plastic wrappings. Sam opened his door, allowing Castiel to pass him the bags.

 

His pocket began to vibrate; a ringing soon followed, filling the gas station with the tune. Scooping out his phone, Castiel’s stomach dropped at the name displayed. MICHAEL.

 

Taking a few steps away from the car Castiel tapped the screen and put the phone to his ear.

 

_“Castiel. Is the assignment complete?”_

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Castiel steeled himself before answering, “The targets have been terminated and their bodies have been disposed of.”

 

He cursed himself as the words jumbled from his throat, surely sounding clumsy to his superior. Inhaling, a deep cool lungful of oxygen, Castiel remembered his training and calmed himself. His fingers relaxed around the phone, his shoulders marginally dropped.

 

_“Good. Come back to Head Office as soon as possible. You have a new assignment.”_

“Yes, sir.”

 

The line dropped and Castiel brought the phone away from his ear. A toilet block was attached to the outside of the building. Heading towards it Castiel flung open the blue door and dropped the phone on the cement floor. With the heel of his polished shoe he smashed it with one well-placed stamp, snapping it in half. Pieces of brightly coloured plastic littered the floor and Castiel ground them down to fine bits. Picking up the biggest chunks of the phone he threw them into the bowl of the toilet with a wet plop. They stayed in the murky water for a moment before Castiel yanked the chain and watched his last chance disappear. There was no going back now.

 

Stepping out of the fetid toilet Castiel stumbled slightly, feeling weak, blood running thin through his veins. Taking a moment he leaned up against the wall, tilting his head back to gaze into the sky. A group of white clouds scudded across the blue canvas and something cold kissed his cheek, then melted, making a bead of water run down his face.

 

Shaking his head, Castiel pinched the bridge of his nose, hissing through his clenched teeth. If he was going to disobey orders, the very least he could do was remain professional, even if it was only to preserve the tattered remains of his pride.

 

His legs felt heavy as he walked back to the car, a weight settled on his shoulders. Dean leaned out the window; sunglasses perched on the end of his nose. “Cas, your taste sucks! I’m choosing the accessories next time.”

 

A strange buoyancy filled his chest, the ghost of a smile tugged at the edges of his lips, missed by Dean as he ducked his head back into the car.

 

Getting back into the car Castiel expelled the breath he hadn’t realised he was holding, the moment of doubt was gone. “You can pick next time, as long as you pay.” Castiel replied, his voice gravelly yet soft to Dean’s ears. The man sitting shotgun smirked and let his hand hang out the window despite the cold, “When Hell freezes over I will.”

 

Sam’s bark of laughter bathed Castiel’s ears; he had forgotten what real laughter sounded like.

 

+++

 

It wasn’t long before Dean had the window up again and the heater blasting out air on the hottest level, making the shutters of the air conditioning vents whisper and shake. Castiel took a hand from the steering wheel to loosen his tie and undo the first two buttons of his white shirt.

 

Despite the cool weather, the morning sun provided balmy warmth. The front window relentlessly kept fogging up. “You can’t honestly be that cold. What are you, half snake?” Castiel bit out, taking a sip from the water bottle jammed into the tiny drink holder.

 

Dean shrugged, more than a little smug, “Well you could have taken us to Florida or Texas but no, you’re taking us to the North Pole. This is the price.” Reaching into the backseat Dean found a chocolate bar and bit into it humming with appreciation.

 

Castiel felt his cheeks flush as he watched the way Dean curved his back in the seat and groaned, long and hard, deep in his throat. “This is so good.”

 

Castiel took another mouthful of water and swallowed, trying to focus on the road. Checking the rear view mirror he noticed a car. It was black and strangely clean compared to the other mud splattered vehicles sharing the road with them. The BMW 5 series had been following them for the past hour, shining spoilers catching the sunlight in lurid sparks. If it was an agent, they weren’t trying to be subtle about it. Realisation flooded Castiel, he wasn’t the only one assigned to terminate Sam and Dean.

 

Stomach tightening, he read the silent message _: Let’s play._

A sign flitted past him on the road, an old wooden billboard with a faded image of a roadside motel. The name, painted in blood red, captured his eye before disappearing into the rear view mirror: ‘Castle Point Motel’ - 15 miles.

 

Sam and Dean’s banter faded into the background as he drove, heart pounding like a captured bird in his breast.

 

The needle on the dashboard incrementally moved upward, exceeding the speed limit. Castiel’s tongue felt dry, sandpaper in his mouth, eager to reach his destination. The driveway of the motel finally rolled over the horizon. Castiel kept an eye trained on the rearview mirror, noting that the BMW pulled into the same motel car park behind him.

 

“I’ll meet you two inside.” Castiel murmured as he passed Dean his wallet. Carefully Dean took it from him, hairs raised on the back of his arms as he sensed a charge, like static, in the air.

 

“Cas?” 

 

“Remember to keep on your sunglasses,” he remarked before getting out of the car. He leaned his elbow on the roof and waited until Dean and Sam disappeared inside. Dean stood on the threshold and glanced over his shoulder. Castiel stood there, trench coat obscuring his figure in long tan lines. Breath misted over his chapped lips, the frost lacing the air stained his high cheekbones pink. One hand was curled over the lip of the car window, whilst the other was hidden beneath his coat.

 

Stomach twisting in tight knots Dean walked into the warm embrace of the motel.

 

Castiel’s hand tightened on the handle of the gun on his hip when he heard the rhythmic pound of footsteps on the gravel behind him.

 

“Disobeying orders Castiel?” came the smug, rich voice. Castiel felt himself twitch, finger itching for the cool trigger.

 

He caught a glimpse of the man from the corner of his eye, who was dressed in an immaculately pressed suit that clung to his slightly rounded frame. “Uriel,” Castiel intoned, “Shall we do this somewhere more private?”

 

Castiel felt as much as he heard Uriel chuckle, a sound more akin to a growl than laughter. “As far as last requests go ‘brother’, it is a poor one.”

 

Turning on his heel Castiel walked towards a copse of leafless trees that towered around a small yellow swing set. The chains on the swing groaned as the wind caught them, making the seat careen wildly. The naked branches of the trees whispered above him, the grass was soft, muting Castiel’s footfalls. Whipping around Castiel brought out his gun, leveling it at Uriel’s ebony temple. The man smirked, “There’s no going back after this. E.D.E.N will hunt you down. The only home you’ve ever known.”

 

Snorting through his nostrils Castiel had to resist the urge to roll his eyes, “It’s a syndicate, not a home. I have never known such a place.”

 

There was a flash of silver and then a lancing, cutting pain. Pure instinct moved Castiel; his left arm arced upwards, protecting his chest from the wickedly curved blade Uriel had suddenly withdrawn. Castiel gasped, vaguely shocked to see his own blood coursing in rivulets down his arm.

 

Uriel smirked and moved in again, too close for Castiel to use his handgun. Uriel used the butt of the blade, jarring Castiel’s hand, forcing him to drop his gun. It went silently to the grassed floor and was left behind as Uriel forced him against the tree.

 

The hard bark met Castiel’s back, the eyes of the wood digging into his spine. With a vicious downward cut Uriel brought the dagger down again. Clapping his hands against Uriel’s wrist, Castiel held the dagger at bay, the point of which hovered over his bobbing Adam’s apple.

 

Blood pattered their leather shoes, the pressure forcing more blood to pump from the wound on his arm. Castiel gritted his teeth, using the tree to push off, anything to gain an advantage. The dagger pressed closer. Uriel’s eyes were wide, bulbous with glee as he saw Castiel’s demise coming to fruition before him.

 

 

“Cas!”

 

The cry made Uriel pause, footfalls sounded behind his back. Castiel spied Dean and Sam over Uriel’s shoulder, their eyes wide. Sam’s hand groped for Dean’s, tremors of fear running through them both, young, inexperienced.

 

Using the distraction Castiel pushed Uriel’s hand up, the blade nicking the skin of his throat as he darted under his arm. He fell to his knees but used his momentum to roll across the grass. As Uriel turned Castiel had his gun in his hand again, the black grip shining in the afternoon sun. Castiel aimed as he lay on his back and took the shot.

 

A crow cawed and took flight at the sudden bang, swooping into the sky.

 

Uriel lay dead at the base of the tree, leaning against the trunk in his final slumber. Blood pooled down his neck and soaked his white collar, oozing from the hole between his eyes.

 

Warm hands clasped Castiel’s shoulder, “Are you okay?”

 

Castiel nodded numbly and let his eyes close. Dean sat down behind him, chest pressed against his back. Heat radiated off him, more comforting than any fire Castiel had rested beside. His hands moved along Castiel’s left arm, following the blood. Pushing his trench coat’s sleeve back Dean clamped his palm over the ragged cut. Sam kneeled next to him and pulled out a plaid handkerchief from his pocket. Without speaking Dean moved his hand and helped Sam tie the temporary bandage over the wound. Red quickly blossomed to the surface, soaking the threads.

 

Dean’s chin came to rest on Castiel’s shoulder, his breath tickling the shell of Castiel’s ear, “Was he your friend?”

 

Castiel looked to Uriel’s corpse, “No, he wasn’t.”

 

Reluctantly, Castiel pulled away from Dean. The moment the cool air rushed over his flesh he regretted it. “Sam, will you help me?”

 

“Yeah, ‘course.” Slotting his arms under Uriel’s armpits Castiel dragged his body from the tree. Sam bent over and grabbed his feet, fingers slipping slightly on the blood. Glancing around Castiel spotted a pond. It wasn’t perfect but the sound of the gunshot would soon draw attention. With Sam’s help he carried the corpse over to the brim of the large pond. The water was cloudy, tinged with a sickly green from the weeds that tickled the surface.

 

“Lay him down” Castiel instructed as he retrieved some rocks from around the edges of the water. Tilting his head Sam stared down at the dead face, then traced his fingers over Uriel’s eyelids, closing his eyes for him. Castiel frowned when he saw it, and met Sam’s tender eyes, “I saw it in a movie once,” he provided for explanation.

 

Silently, with a business like manner, Castiel stuffed the rocks into Uriel’s pockets then tightly buttoned his suit jacket. From his waist he unbuckled Uriel’s snakeskin belt and used it to bind his ankles to a weighty rock. With a grunt he rolled him into the pond, where he quickly disappeared from sight.

 

“How long will that keep him under?” Dean asked as he peered down into the brackish water.

 

Castiel rolled his shoulders and held his injured arm against his chest, “A few days. It doesn’t matter, we’ll be off the grid by then…if all goes to plan.”

 

Dean and Sam both tilted their heads slightly in perfect synchronization as they heard something in the distance. “Someone’s coming,” Sam whispered, words turned to ghostly vapor.

 

With a curt nod Castiel moved quickly back towards the car, with Sam and Dean on his heels. As they passed the swing set it squeaked again, a high-pitched metallic whine.

 

They strode through the empty car park, expecting at any moment the person Sam and Dean had detected to suddenly appear. Not too quickly as to arouse suspicion, Castiel opened the car door and slipped inside, careful of his tender arm. Turning the ignition, he backed out of the motel, and pulled out onto the highway, glancing up into the rearview mirror to check for any witnesses. No one was there.

 

The next few minutes passed in silence, a heavy cloying thing that seemed to scream louder than any siren. Sam, in the backseat, broke the silence, “That was another assassin right?”

 

Castiel’s lips thinned into a line, a hand resting in his lap constricted around the edges of his trench coat, “Yes.”

 

Dean’s eyes burned, the seatbelt hissed as he jerked towards Castiel, hand clamping down on his tie. The car remained steady, as though Castiel hadn’t noticed the man’s hand anchored from his neck or the angry focus of the two malachite eyes upon him.  “And you didn’t think we should know, or could help you? Or, did you think we would get in the way?”

 

Castiel licked his lips, neck aching from the weight of Dean’s hand on his cobalt tie, “…I’m used to working alone.”

 

Dean’s fingers trailed away from his tie, catching the buttons on his shirt as he pulled his hand away. A shudder trickled over Castiel’s skin from the spot, nerves alight with sensation.

 

“Well you’re not alone anymore. You’ve got us from now on.” Dean says, smile radiant against the wasted backdrop of the frosty hills and roads.

 

Dean was wildfire.

 

+++

 

The bandage on his arm was itchy, like ants were crawling over him, eager for a taste of his blood. Castiel resisted the urge to scratch it, to dig his nails in and rip the dried blood off. The sun was setting after their long days drive, putting the Castle Point Motel far behind them. At his side Dean had fallen asleep, a spare coat pressed against the window as a makeshift pillow for his head. His breath misted on the glass. In the back Sam chewed on a stick of jerky, brow corrugated with annoyance after Castiel had refused his offer to stitch up his wound.

 

“Sam?”

 

Sam stopped chewing for a moment, “Yeah?”

 

Castiel felt his lips twitch; neither of the brothers seemed to have the capacity to hold grudges. Perhaps, he remarks to himself, it’s a human thing. His eyelids are heavy and leaden as exhaustion was finally winning him over. “Do you think…if I gave Dean a quick lesson on how to drive he would be okay?”

 

Sam considered it for a moment, gaze flicking over to his brother, whose plump lips were slightly parted. “I think so. I’ve been watching how you drive. I can make sure he’ll be alright.”

 

Castiel nodded and steered the Impala over onto the hard shoulder. Dust plumes filter up around them as he brings the car to a stop. Reaching over, Castiel nudged Dean awake. Slowly, he rapidly blinked away his sleep, cringing slightly as the bright sunset flooded the front of the car. “Why are we stopping?”

 

“I’m going to teach you how to drive.” Castiel said as he put the gear into neutral, hushing the rumble of the engine slightly.

 

Dean smirked, “About time.”

 

Rolling his eyes Castiel went through ‘How to Drive 101’, indicating the accelerator, brake, clutch, when to change gears and how to check the blind spot. Beside him Dean was a ball of restless energy, punctuating the lesson with firm nods and a flurry of hand gestures. Finally, Castiel came to the end of his lecture. Without thinking he grabbed Dean’s hands and placed them on the steering wheel. His leather clad palms slid over the back of Dean’s hands and his fingers slipped between his. Dean’s tanned skin was stark against the black gloves and steering wheel. Dean swallowed thickly, enjoying the tight pressure of Castiel keeping his hands in place.

 

“For best control, you hold your hands here on the steering wheel. As this is your first time driving, keep them _here_.” The last word was gravelly, dredged up from the base of Castiel’s throat whilst he pressed down on Dean’s hands, trapping them against his own.

 

Dean was strangely silent, face powdered with a delicate flush. “Do you understand?” Castiel asked, watching as Dean’s pink tongue darted out to lick the seam of his lips. “Yeah I got it.” Dean replied, voice husky. Clearing his throat, Dean slipped his hands free from beneath Castiel’s, “So let me drive,” he added, practically pushing Castiel out of the car and settling into the warm depression left behind.

 

Sam got out as well and stood next to Castiel. “Thanks Cas, get some sleep, I’ll make sure he doesn’t go over the speed limit and gets us pulled over,” he said ruefully, patting Castiel’s back as he took Sam’s place in the back of the car. Castiel’s door slammed shut just in time as Dean changed gears and revved the engine and reentered the highway with a slight wobble.

 

Castiel sent Dean a withering look from the back and clipped on his seatbelt. Going through one of the paper bags from the gas station Castiel pulled out a red pen and a map. Carefully, he drew a line, and then circled their next destination. Afterwards he passed it to Sam, who immediately began to study the red line. “We’ll probably get there tomorrow, but when Dean gets tired find a motel and we’ll have a few hours rest.”

 

Sam nodded his acceptance and looked up as a green sign passed the car window. Castiel rested his weight against the car door, pressing his temple against the glass. Breathing in deep through his nostrils he felt a yawn pressing at the back of his throat. Within minutes he was asleep, in a strange reversal of the previous night.

 

+++

 

The Impala’s amber headlights illuminated the front door of a motel room, gold number ‘7’ glinting in the light. Castiel jerked awake, mind whirling with dreams of white eyes staring up at him from a deep pond.

 

Dean’s face appeared over the top of the front seat. “Hey, that’s our room. Do you want to come inside, have something to eat?”

 

Castiel reached down, grabbing one of his bags. It was a small black suitcase, discrete and commonplace. Bringing it out with him Castiel followed Dean into the motel room, surprised to find Sam already in the room, shoes discarded at the end of the bed and eating a cold pasta salad. Castiel silently reprimanded himself; he really must be slipping if Sam didn’t wake him when he had retrieved the food.

 

Breathing out heavily Castiel sat on the spare bed, noting that the room only had two. Dean sat down next to Sam and bit into a ham and cheese sandwich as they watched the dusty screen of the old Panasonic television.

 

Laying his suitcase onto the bed Castiel unzipped it then flipped it open. Inside, in neat compartments were several smaller bags; the one he reached for was a flat leather case. On its side was a white circle with a red cross emblazoning the centre. The sound of a zip hissing entered the room again, cutting through the woman’s voice on the local news.

 

Dean paused as the glint of the silver needle caught his eye. Castiel had his sleeve rolled up to his elbow, blue string dangling from the sliver of metal, the end of the thread curling on the inside of his elbow. A red stained cotton bud sat on the sheets alongside Sam’s handkerchief, stiff with dried blood. Dean watched as without so much as a flinch, Castiel pushed the point of the needle through his skin, making the blue thread slither over the claret hued wound, only to be pulled taut at the other end. Dean put the rest of his sandwich down, wrapping the Clingfilm around the rest. Walking in front of the TV he sat on his haunches next to Castiel to watch.

 

Castiel stopped his work, curving a brow at the scrutiny Dean paid to the cut. “What’s it like? To not have it heal straightaway?”

 

Shrugging, Castiel continued, slowly tugging the skin of his arm back together, “Annoying, painful, itchy.”

 

Dean pursed his lips and gently ran his finger over one of the raised stitches, “I don’t know, maybe it isn’t so bad. They’re memories right?”

 

Castiel pulled the last stitch tight with a hard jerk of his wrist, making a trickle of blood ooze down his arm, “Scars are never good memories Dean, count yourself lucky you have none.” With that Castiel turned away, putting the thread and needle back into their case. Dean’s eyes followed his hands, staring at the ever-present black gloves, “Is that why you’re always wearing those?” he asked, indicating Castiel’s gloves with a jerk of his chin.

 

Castiel’s hands stilled over his bag, the leather felt restrictive, trapping his long fingers. “I’m going to have a shower.”

 

Shrugging out his trench coat Castiel let it drop onto the bed before disappearing into the bathroom, letting his silence answer Dean’s question. The news babbled on in the background but all Dean could hear was his heart thundering in his ears and the sound of water cascading onto tiles.

 

+++

 

Dean was more than happy to drive again as they made their way along the bitumen highway. The sun was rising to the side of them, cloaking their skin with shadows but highlighting their bones. Castiel was quiet in the front seat, the glow from the sun’s rays catching his perfectly straight nose and the line of his square jaw. Even his chapped lips were pinched.

 

“Geez Cas I’m sorry okay? I won’t poke into your past if you don’t want me to.” Dean eked out, tone sharp and clipped.

 

Castiel looked at him chin tilting up slightly, “There is nothing to be sorry for. Don’t let it concern you.”

 

Dean slammed his hand on the steering wheel with a sharp smack, earning a sigh from Sam in the backseat, who chose to ignore the conversation and read his dog-eared copy of _The Great Gatsby_ instead.

 

Castiel angled his head to the side, hands clasped loosely in his lap, “Why are you angry?”

 

Grinding his teeth together Dean held the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned a deathly white, “Sure you’re not a genetically engineered human either?”

 

Castiel cocked a brow, a bemused twist to his lips.

 

Hunkering down into his seat Dean shook his head, and snagged his sunglasses from his jacket pocket and slipped them on, “How much longer till we get there?”

 

Getting out the map Castiel unfolded it, crinkling the pages, “Not much longer now, keep an eye out.” Pointing down the road, Castiel indicated a small yellow sign that read: ‘Novak Road’.

 

“Turn there.”

 

Dean nodded and steered the car onto the road. The road turned into a fork, then a crossroad and then finally, a narrow dirt track. Trees towered above them, turning it into a cool dark tunnel. Branches scraped down the sides of the Impala, creating an ungodly screech, like fingers running along a chalkboard. Sam covered his ears, wincing at the high-pitched keen that played havoc with his sensitive hearing. Dean’s canine worried his lip as he gently laid a little more weight onto the accelerator, urging the speed up slightly.

 

A three storey, foreboding building loomed over them, throwing its silhouette onto the car. The red bricks were crumbling at the edges, seemingly held together by the dying strands of brown ivy that clung to the walls. Its widows were smashed and the tattered remains of sun bleached curtains feebly flapped in the breeze. The land in front of the building was barren, dry soil with a few weeds that nudged through it, withered and dying in the cold.

 

To the left of the building tall grasses undulated like underwater weeds, creating an unearthly hush in the place. From in-between the golden grasses, grey tombstones poked up through the vegetation.

 

“What is this place?” Dean asked as he stepped out of the Impala, wrapping his arms around his chest, warding off the shivers that trickled over him in waves.

 

“An orphanage,” Castiel replied, “I won’t be long.”

 

A small wooden door was angled off the side of the red bricks, a rusted deadlock and chain keeping the twin doors in place. From his pocket Castiel withdrew the key, a gnarled miserable thing made of thick iron. The padlock screeched when it was unlocked and a chill rush of air wafted up from the storm cellar, the smell of earth and damp riding the currents. Dean stepped up to the edge and peered down into the gloom. All he could see were a set of mildew eaten steps that dropped down into a well of ink. There wasn’t an ounce of hesitation as Castiel descended into the cellar, allowing the inky hands to steal him from the morning sunshine.

 

Dean inched away and scanned the area for a patch of sunlight. Crossing the barren soil he waded into the long grasses, smiling faintly as their tips brushed under his jacket and tickled the sensitive skin of his belly. A broken headstone shone with light, practically inviting Dean to press his flesh against it. His eyes fluttered closed with the warmth burning into him, he could feel the sun pressing against his back like a warm but forceful hand. The grasses whispered as Sam joined him, finding the other half of the fallen headstone. With a sigh he lay against it, pressing his spine into the roughly hewn granite. Rolling over Dean looked up into the sky, a rectangle of sapphire framed by gold. Sam’s heavy exhale complimented the quietude.

 

“What do you think of Cas?” Dean murmured as he put his hands under his head, boots hanging off the edge of the stone. Sam turned slightly to face him and then tracked a cloud about to pass over them. “He seems…broken.” Dean let his eyes open then pulled his sunglasses off allowing them to hang off his fingertips, “Yeah I think so too. I’ll just have to fix him.”

 

“Dean? Sam?” A voice came, the subtleties of their names hinting at the speaker’s anxiety. Castiel stood next to the Impala, a box of forged documents with new identities for his charges tucked safely away inside it.

 

“By the graves!” Came the reply, the voice deeper and richer - Sam’s. With a grateful sigh Castiel rubbed the tips of his fingers into the sides of his temple, forcing his heart to still its mad gallop in his chest. Popping the trunk of the Impala, Castiel stowed the box of documents next to the long silver case of his sniper rifle and turned his back on it to grab a bag full of lunch. He walked, a little quicker than normal, to the graveyard, stepping over the low metal border marking the petite cemetery’s territory. The grass hid them from view and Castiel followed the tunnel made by their bodies and came upon them relaxing in the sunshine, greedily soaking in the heat.

 

They lounged like tigers, reflective eyes predatory as they looked up at him. With a huff Castiel passed Dean a bag. From it he withdrew a ham and cheese sandwich and a slice of pie, wrapped tight with plastic. Sam took a chocolate bar and a container brimming with fat udon noodles, leaving Castiel with a burger and a bag of dried mango pieces.

 

Castiel kneeled on the soft soil, bracing his back against the grave of ‘ _Lenor Benson’_. The wind threaded itself through his hair and with it he felt himself relax, the knots in his muscles undoing themselves, the taut pull of tendons letting go. He plucked a piece of fruit from the bag, chewing the sugary slice. The last taste of summer was soaked into it, but there was autumn on the air.

 

The thick syrup from the pie oozed into Dean’s mouth, cloying his tongue with sweetness and the taste of ripe cherries. Dean hesitated before taking his next bite as he ran his tongue across his lips. “Do you think we’ll make it? I don’t want to die Cas.”

 

Reaching out Castiel clasped Dean’s chin, forcing the intense greens upwards, allowing Castiel to stare unflinchingly into their depths. “I won’t let that happen.” Castiel’s gloved fingers were tight on Dean’s chin, almost punishing with their pressure. Dean swallowed and put his hand on Castiel’s wrist, slipping the tip of his finger under Castiel’s glove.

 

Immediately Castiel drew his hand away, but Dean snatched it at, so quickly it made the assassin startle. He tried to tug it away, break free from his vice like hold, but Dean was steadfast, cherry stained lips parting with a breath. Dean hesitated, words fleeing him.

 

“Please, please don’t…” Castiel whispered, so quiet that a normal human would never have heard the utterance. He sounded weak, his voice shook, he hated himself, hated the vulnerability that he had allowed to fester inside himself. Dean’s grip tightened marginally on him, his thumb pressing into his thundering pulse. “Trust me?”

 

Sam angled himself away and stared into the swaying fronds.

 

Castiel watched Sam’s broad back, wishing for him to turn around and berate his brother, but the words never came. Heaving out a breath Castiel’s wide frightened eyes meet Dean’s. He nodded slightly, allowing himself to go lax, shrinking inside his trench coat as though it were his last defense.

 

Slowly Dean tugged on the edge of the glove, soft from the years spent glued to the man’s hand. The skin was a pale alabaster underneath, long forgotten. Castiel looked away, a sour shame flooding his mouth. Raised, white scars mottled the surface, long thick lines that bubbled against the skin. The skin on the back of Castiel’s hand prickled as Dean ran his delicate fingers over them. Castiel braced himself for the questions, the demands, the cries of disgust at the flesh that had haunted him throughout his life.

 

Something soft pressed against his skin. Whipping his head around he felt himself exhale from his very core. Dean’s lips brushed his scars, following the marks like they were something precious. “They’re beautiful,” he said it like a benediction, his breath ghosting over Castiel’s hypersensitive skin.

 

Castiel’s fingers tightened over the curve of Dean’s palm that now cupped his hand, supporting not holding. He felt something wet and foreign lick his cheek before he quickly brushed it away. Dean lifted his head, nostrils flaring with the salty smell. “Don’t hide your hands all the time. Promise me.”

 

Castiel smiled, his cerulean eyes soft, “I promise.”

 

Dean cocked his head to the side and wondered why that smile was so different to the ones he had seen on T.V.

 

Castiel’s fingers shook as he pulled the other glove off, baring another set of grisly scars that puckered his flesh.

 

Dean’s free hand reached out for it, upturned palm slipping under Castiel’s. He threaded his fingers through the pale digits, and then clinched them firmly together. “I think they’re beautiful.” Castiel felt his chest swell and his smile glow brighter.

 

Dean was wildfire and Castiel was catching alight.

 

+++

 

They drove into a small town, it was quaint, picturesque, and brightly coloured flowers hung in planters from the shop eaves. Castiel was at the wheel, his exposed fingers running over the battered leather surface. Dean watched the lithe digits with something akin to satisfaction quirking his lips. The Impala stopped outside an old bank, where the doors were gilded with gold plating and engraved with filigree. Next to it was a brightly coloured gadgets store in a stark juxtaposition between the stubborn old and the persistent new. Televisions flickered behind the glass, displaying a children’s movie in lurid pastels. “Hey Cas? Can I borrow some money?” Dean asked, Sam’s face hopeful in the back as he gazed into the store.

 

Castiel tugged out his wallet and withdrew a wad of green notes, brow arched, “Borrowing means you’ll pay me back.”

 

Dean winks as he opens the door, which creaks with age, “I didn’t mean I’d pay you back with money.”

 

Sam groans, wiping a hand over his face at the cheesy line as he steps out. Castiel fishes his gloves out of his trench coat and slides his hands into them. Castiel locks the door with a spare key he had found in the trunk, and strides towards the bank.  
But he steals a moment to watch the brothers through the clean glass. Dean’s smile is bright and infectious, bringing a grin to Sam as he gestures to a portable DVD player. Their sunglasses hide the glow of their eyes, out of place in the bright store.

 

Castiel shakes himself out of his reverie, rolling his shoulders with a satisfying click as he marches into the bank. The front desk was empty, a long slab of white marble threaded through with black veins. A little gold bell sat on the counter and with a light tap of his fingertip it’s call echoed in the unfriendly place. A small woman came to the counter, blonde hair greased back into a bun that pulled at her face, giving her a permanent grimace. “What can I do for you sir?” she intoned as though it is a tremendous burden to speak. Castiel revealed a small golden key. “I have a safety deposit box that I would like to empty, number 401.”

 

Her long red nails scraped the key off the surface and she indicated for Castiel to follow her with a wave of her hand. They walked down a murky narrow corridor, paneled in dark wood that ended with two rooms, hidden from view by a crimson curtain on each.

 

The woman, her nametag labeling her as Elizabeth, let Castiel into the room before disappearing. Minutes later she reappeared with a slim metal box that she placed on the polished table along with the key. “There you are sir,” she muttered before scurrying away again. The box opened with a click when Castiel inserted the key. Breathing in deeply he lifted the cover, smelling the spice in the wood polish and the underlying dust of the place, and stared down at the contents. A slender gun was inside, silencer sitting next to it like a deadly promise. Picking it out he fitted it under his belt, gun sling already occupied on his hip. A multitude of different papers slid over each other, passports and currencies. Picking out a blue passport he flipped the cover, facing a portrait of himself. The name Jimmy Novak was printed in bold next to his face. That and another elasticated bundle of cash entered his pocket. At the bottom was what he came for. An old cell phone where a bulky black device was attached at the end, concealing any information about the caller lest there be curious persons on the other end of the line.

 

The phone beeped to life when Castiel held the little red button, screen splashing green light into the room. There was one number in the contacts. E.D.E.N. Gripping the edge of the table Castiel leaned against it and called the contact, placing the phone to his ear. The phone trilled three times before there was the distinctive click.

 

_“Who is this?”_

Castiel’s gloved hand squeaked against his ear, “It’s Castiel.”

 

There was a silence, filled only by an electrical hum.

 

_“It’s not too late to come back. Complete your assignment, report in and we’ll forgive you for killing Uriel.”_

Brow creasing Castiel bit down, hard, on the inside of his lip and tasted the metallic tang of blood. “I’m not coming back Michael. I’m phoning to say that the boys and I are no harm to you. We only want to disappear.”

 

A cruel laugh resounded from the other end of the line _“The boys? They’re not children, they’re monsters brewed out of test tubes in a lab. How far you have fallen Castiel, to think of such abominations as something akin to family?”_

White-hot anger flared in his belly, choking his throat, making his next words clipped, “I don’t care about what you think Michael. I’m phoning to tell you not to look for us, if any harm comes to them I will destroy you, or die in the pursuit.”

 

Castiel heard Michael huff out a breath, _“Yes, you will die. Them too. But your death will be slow, I’ll make sure of that personally.”_

The line went dead. Castiel felt a sweat break out onto his skin, the tone buzzing against the shell of his ear. Dropping the phone back into the box Castiel leaned over the table, hands splayed against it. His legs felt weak, as though the smallest push would send him toppling down, a veritable house of cards. He pulled his tie loose from around his throat, but the room was humid, a sickly coating that threatened to make him vomit. Closing the box with a snap he locked it and fled from the room, dizzy, ends of his trench coat billowing out behind him.

 

The pre-autumn air outside hit him like a slap to the face, draining his cheeks of colour. Hurrying over to the Impala he flung the door open and got inside, slumping in the seat. He allowed his head to loll onto the back of the seat as he concentrated on breathing. He had disobeyed his orders, threatened to murder his superiors _Michael_ at that and…it felt good. Sam and Dean were at the counter and Castiel breathed out a half laugh as he watched Sam dig an elbow into Dean’s ribs, making him frown, only for them to both grin a moment later. Chilly air billowed into the car as they soon both clambered into the back, a white plastic bag in each of their hands. From inside his Dean pulled out an iPod and Sam withdrew his DVD player and a collection of old cowboy movies and sci fi flicks.

 

Reaching over the seat, Castiel plucked the black iPod from Dean’s fingers, “What music do you like?” Dean shrugged, “I don’t know yet, but that just means you’ll have to help me.”

 

Passing back the iPod Castiel turned around and started the engine, just as Dean tucked in close to Sam as he inserted a DVD, where classic canned gunshots punched out from the speakers.

 

They were boys, in the sense that they were new to the world and needed protecting but they were _his_ to look after. Yet the dichotomy lay in that they were so much more than that, in such a short space of time.

 

Dean glanced up into the spotted rearview mirror and smiled.

 

+++

 

Castiel was quiet that night as he sat at the table, fingers steepled under his chin as he stared out of the window. A dismantled gun lay before him, grease and cloth next to it, forgotten. The sound of the credits rolling from ‘Independence Day’ signaled the end of the film and with a click Sam closed the DVD player. Dean leaned up against the headboard next to him, sleeping lightly, with the player sitting between them on the mattress. Rolling up and onto his knees Sam stretched his arms over his head making the mattress’ springs squeak. Dropping onto the floor Sam padded barefoot across the scratchy lavender carpet and to Castiel. Slowly, Sam started to put the gun back together, elegant fingers slotting the pieces together. Finally it was done. Castiel tiled his head to the side and pursed his lips, “Not bad,” he whispered, voice level so as to not disturb Dean, “Keep it and practice, you might need it if I fail. Dean needs you.”

 

Sam’s gaze was tender in the dark as he sat down in the chair next to Castiel’s. His fingers played along the barrel of the gun, following the engraved filigree. “You said that you wouldn’t let that happen.”

 

Castiel laid his hands out on the table, the moon’s rays turning them into pale objects through the crack in the curtain.  “I don’t want to fail, but E.D.E.N is large, I never even knew they were conducting _those_ kinds of experiments. I’m just one man.”

 

Sam shrugged, “But you have to, for Dean. He needs you now too.” With a smirk Sam raised his chin, “And I think you’re alright as well.”

 

Castiel glanced over his shoulder, noting the pallor of Dean’s lips and his bare arms. Sam followed his gaze and silently went over to the spare single bed and tucked himself under the covers, his vibrant eyes blinked against the backdrop of his pillow, watching and waiting. With a sigh Castiel shrugged out of his trench coat and suit jacket, pulled off his tie and shirt and stepped out of his trousers. The thermostat in the room hummed happily as Castiel crossed over to Dean. The mattress sunk down as he knelt onto the bed in only his black briefs, cautiously Castiel fitted his hand against Dean’s cheek, “Come on, get in.”

 

Dean’s bright green eyes cut through the dark and straight into Castiel. “Getting me into bed already?” he murmured, through a coy smirk, voice thick with sleep. Dean shuffled down, as Castiel lifted the covers, the smell of citrus and detergent wafting up from the cotton. Slotting in after him Castiel laid his head on the pillow and faced Dean. They stared at each other in the dark and under the sheets Dean’s hand found his, thumb rubbing small circles onto the back of his scarred hand. “Hey Cas…?”

 

“Hm?”

 

“Can I tell you something? It’s important.” Dean whispered, hand stiff in his.  Castiel shifted closer, their lips millimeters away, so that they shared the same breath in an intimate not quite brush. “You know how Sam has that freaky precognition thing that he does…?” Castiel nodded, hair roughed up into spikes against the soft pillow. “Well I’ve got something too. I can…it’s hard to explain.”

 

Castiel closed the gap without thinking, suddenly desperate for a taste of those firm pink lips. The first thing he tasted on the delicate flesh were the grains of sugar from the second slice of pie Dean had eaten an hour before. Under that was something stranger, electric almost, the taste of rain before it falls from grey clouds. Dean presses up against him, hard hips jutting into Castiel’s in a soft roll that has Castiel gasping against Dean’s throat. Pulling away slightly Dean licks his lips, tasting Castiel on them, a clean sharp taste, metallic but warm with something like cinnamon. “I have to say this…” Dean goes rigid for a moment, muscled body a hard line disguised by the blankets. “I’ve got the power of suggestion, I used it on you to make you hesitate, to question why you were about to shoot me at the fountain.”

 

Dean squeezes his eyes shut, heart a thundering as he plows on, “But that’s the only time I’ve used it on you. It was your own decision to help us, to turn your back on E.D.E.N.”

 

Castiel’s hand slides out of Dean’s grip, making the man bite down onto his lip, moisture burning behind his closed eyelids. The hand came to rest on his cheekbone, “I know, it was my own choice.”

 

Dean’s eyes flicked open, a shaky exhale rushing out of him. Dean shuffled closer, putting a leg between Castiel’s, skin and leg hair sliding against each other. Pressing his chest flush against Castiel’s, he breathed out, ribs catching on Castiel’s naked chest. Castiel’s hand drifted from Dean’s stubble rough cheek and wrapped itself under Dean’s arm tying them together, in a sweltering embrace. They soon fell asleep without realizing, with Castiel’s watch ticking between them.

 

+++

 

Bolting upright in bed, Sam’s eyes flicked open, twin sets of shining obsidian, where an ethereal glow seemed to burn behind them.

 

His fingers pinched the bridge of his nose.

 

_A flash of shining black shoes crunching on gravel._

_A glimpse of a gun’s barrel emerging from beneath a tailored suit jacket._

_Three bangs._

The vision cuts short, lancing pain shooting through Sam’s temple. A gasp was punched out of him; something warm and wet trickled from his nose. The room was still foggy, the strange in between of foresight and what he was seeing presently, fighting for dominance.

 

“Dean?” Sam croaked, voice a grating rasp in his throat.

 

There was a rustle of sheets as Castiel’s head came up from behind Dean’s shoulder, eyes bleary and unfocussed until they riveted themselves on Sam’s face. The black filter still covered his eyes, turning the familiar face into something alien, terrifying.

 

“Cas?” Sam queried with narrowed eyes and after a moment the black filter disappeared with a barely audible click. “There are people coming, five, I think. They’re…”

 

Dean rolled over to face Sam, still cocooned in the blankets, the words paralyzing him for the briefest moment.

 

Castiel swung his legs over the mattress, toes curling in the carpet as he exhaled.

 

 _…breathe…_  

 

Calmly, he strode over to his clothes, left in a bundle on the motel room chair. The wrinkles and stains of blood on the collar of his trench coat belied his new life, where before his clothes would have been pressed and neatly folded, spotless. Somehow they seemed more honest now.

 

He slipped his white shirt on; buttoning it up from the bottom, though his fingers hovered over the last plastic disc. He left it undone as he stepped into his trousers and buckled his belt snug around his slender waist. He bent over to slip on his shoes, ignoring the worried stares boring into his back from Sam and Dean. Next he put on his tie, leaving it loose around his neck, making the collar skewed to the side. Finally he pulled on his trench coat and afterwards his gloves, those he tugged on nice and tight, his flexed knuckles making the leather whine.

 

Pivoting on his heel he took in the sight of Sam with a gun in his hand, the mother of pearl handle gripped loosely in his hand. His face was steely, lips pinched, with the long brown locks of his hair tucked neatly behind the shell of his ear. Dean took a tentative step towards Castiel, but hesitated, then finally closed the gap. His hands ran up Castiel’s chest, fingers curling in the collar, yanking the assassin towards him in a brutally demanding kiss. Castiel arched up into the touch, let himself open up to the man, whose body heat wrapped around him. Their tongues tangled in a frantic press, tasting and chasing each other. They pulled away, gasping for air, their lips still tingling.

 

“Oh geez, really?” Sam muttered, face crimson.

 

Turning, Dean smirked and rocked back on his heels, “Sorry Sammy but I gotta take the little moments. You know go out with a bang if that’s what this all adds up to.”

 

Castiel scoffed as he reached under the table pulling out his suitcase and unzipping it. From within it he pulled out a large knife, serrated edges sharp and vicious and handed it to Dean without looking. Next he pulled out two guns, one battered and scratched and the other a Glock 17 that he pushed into Dean’s free hand.  “You’ve been trained how to use guns, I know that much.” He uttered, looking up into Dean’s face. “Protect yourself and Sam, I’ll handle things here and join you later. I’ll find you.”

 

Dean’s eyes flashed to molten glass, anger tightening his jaw, “You’re a bad liar Cas, I’m not letting you die here alone.”

 

“So you’ll let Sam die here as well?” he hissed, “There’s no point in them getting us all. I’m giving you the chance to get away, take it. I know from experience that even a few days free to make your own choices is better than none.”

 

For a moment it looked as if Dean was going to argue, his lips fell apart with a wet pop. Yet his jaw snapped shut when he sneaked a glance at Sam, hazel eyes rounded with a smudge of crimson blood beneath his nostrils. Dean jerked his head in a nod, thrusting his gun under his belt, cold metal biting into his flesh. This time when he looked up his eyes were wet. “Thanks Cas, see you soon.”

 

The corner of Castiel’s lip quirked as he watched Dean walk to the door, hand resting on the sterling knob. “C’mon Sammy, Cas is going to catch us up.”

 

Sam’s gaze shot over to Castiel, “But, we can’t-“

 

Raising a hand Castiel cut him short, “There’s a fire escape down the hall, use that to get out. Don’t hesitate if you meet someone, shoot them.”

 

“This is stupid!” Sam cried, arms outstretched, “We’re not doing this! Are we Dean?”

 

In answer Dean opened the door, the profile of his face unreadable. Sam helplessly stood in the middle of the room. “There’s no time Sammy,” said Dean, “They’ll catch us. Cas is going to give us a head start and we can’t waste it.”

 

Falling to his knee, Castiel flipped back the sheets that flowed over the bed, his fingers groping for the silver handle of his case. With a tug, it slid out from under the bed, gleaming in the dawning sunlight. He laid his hands upon it, fingers splayed in a fond caress. The floor creaked behind him, “It’s okay Sam, leave. My end was always going to be bloody, yours doesn’t have to be.”

 

“In the worst case scenario maybe,” Sam answered, the ghost of a smile on his lips, “But we’ll see you soon.”

 

Castiel looked down at his rifle case and felt the sting of the door closing behind them. Immediately the room felt cooler, his own body stiff, and his actions became business like as he ran his fingertips over the seam of the case. With a synchronized click the clasps came undone, shining light on the jet rifle.

 

Carefully he set it up, flashes of the abandoned warehouse from the days before interposing itself over his vision of the motel room. This time though the rifle would protect the men he was assigned to kill. He huffed out a throaty chuckle, the irony darkly amusing as he twisted the muffler on the end of the barrel, allowing it to click into place. With that done he stood, the rifle leaning against his shoulder as he marched over to the window. Drawing the curtain back slightly he saw two cars pull up, one gun metal grey Mercedes E550 and the other an onyx Chrysler 300c.

 

Flicking up his wrist he read the face of his watch, calculating that he had five minutes to put his plan into action. Leaning the rifle against an armchair Castiel set himself to his task, each motion choreographed and practiced from years in the job. From within his bags he pulled two bundles of C4, white blocks that were neatly wrapped in clear plastic. Next he withdrew two cylindrical blasting caps and molded them into the C4, black gloves shaping them in place. His watch ticked on, golden hands giving him just three minutes more. Finally he attached a black detonator into each, covering them quickly with the C4, placing them snuggly into the centre. Hurrying over to the closed door he fitted one packet of prepped C4 into the frame, ensuring that when the opened it would be hidden from view. With the other he slid it under the sheets of the bed closest to the window, fluffing up the blankets to retain the natural rumpled look.

 

With a weary sigh he rolled his shoulders and put the plastic detonator in his pocket, little red light flashing. Running his hands down the length of his rifle he picked it up, keeping low as he approached the window. Slowly, he raised the barrel of the sniper rifle, fitting it between the gap in the curtain, and leant it on the window sill for stability. He went down on one knee and adjusted his head, fitting a blue eye against the scope. The doors to the cars opened, the shoes of the agents crunched on the gravel. There were five of them. Castiel’s mind flew, calculating his odds of success. Two would fall now, one later when they entered the room. The last pair would succumb to the explosion.

 

Castiel rubbed his fingertip over the curve of the trigger, his heart a steady beat in his chest, as a strange calm washed over him. He applied pressure, the metal creaking. Then with a muted bang and a whistle a bullet was discharged. The window smashed, a tinkle of glass falling from the frame. An agent dropped, a young girl with long blonde hair, now with a gory red hole severing her spinal column in two. Castiel didn’t recognize her but wasted no time adjusting his aim, green arrows singling out his next target. The man was looking down at the dead woman, his chocolate brown eyes wide as dark purplish blood bubbled from the circular hole that burrowed through her neck. Adjusting his weight Castiel cocked his gun, expelling the smoking golden shell, allowing it to roll, spent, onto the carpeted floor. Exhaling, the scope was perfectly still, and in that exhale he pulled, felling the man. His body tumbled down onto hers in a neat, bloody pile.

 

The other agents moved, running for the nearby protection of the building, out of sight and under the window Castiel was at. Laying the rifle down Castiel gave the weapon one last lingering touch before pulling himself away and found cover behind the bed. From his hip he pulled out a handgun. It was heavy in his hand, fully loaded, not that he expected to need every bullet; it would be over much quicker than that. His knife, a small silver blade lay concealed in his suit lining, hidden from a body search.

 

There was a shout that was soon muffled. Eyes fluttering closed Castiel counted the methodic beats of their footsteps, all three agents coming in for a frontal assault. It would be messy but effective. The detonator was strangely comforting in his pocket.

 

A shadow passed under the door, cutting through the yellow light of the hallway lamps. Castiel pressed his back against the mattress.

 

_…breathe…_

The door opened with a bang, the handle smashing the plaster wall. Castiel swiveled from his crouched position, peering over the mattress, took aim and then squeezed the trigger. An agent screamed with agony, the bullet having ripped into his lung. He sank down onto his knee, blood flecking his lips. An agent’s blue eyes fixed on him; her shoulders stiff as she raised her gun. Castiel leveled his gun and pulled the trigger again.

 

Two loud bangs.

 

The bullet pounded through her shoulder, shattering her collarbone and releasing an agonized scream from her lips.

 

But all Castiel could hear was the blood rushing in his ears. All he could feel was the warm flow of blood pumping from the wound in his chest. Warm and sticky it turned his ivory shirt scarlet. Pain radiated from the spot as he toppled over, the shock robbing him of breath. The world was skewed, everything listed. For a brief moment he wondered why he couldn’t feel anything, that his sense of touch was dulled. It was hard to move, but eventually he brought his hands before his eyes and saw black. Feebly he pulled at a glove, desperate to feel one last time, just something, some small thing to steal from the world to take with him.

 

Shoes fractured his vision, the shining toes small hills in front of him. Abandoning his effort to pull off his glove he pulled in a shivering breath and reached for the detonator. He found it in his pocket and put his thumb on the rounded head, the red button. Squeezing his eyes shut the pain thumped a staccato through his veins, leeching tears from his eyes. He only hoped that Sam and Dean had gotten far enough away. Hopelessly he prayed, for the first time, but not to God, but to Dean that he would remember the assassin with the scarred hands. With that stolen moment he pulled out the detonator.

 

_…breathe…_

+++

 

They were running, hearts pounding and muscles burning. They had heard the cars pull in, the glass shattering. Dean’s hands were balled into fists as he ran, fingernails biting sharp crescents into his palms. For a few moments blood would bead on his skin, then the cuts would heal as if they were never there. Pausing at the top of the hill, Dean looked back over his shoulder, the perfect outlook onto the motel. The sun glinted on the pieces of broken glass in the parking lot. The motel was quiet, the silence an oppressive cloud. At any moment Dean expected to hear the agonized screams of Castiel, his voice broken and strained, so far removed from its usual calm and gravelly timbre.

 

Sam stood next to him and watched, chest heaving after their mad flight.

 

Dean felt moisture burning at his eyes and let the beads roll unchecked down his cheeks, “Did we do the right thing? He’ll survive right? It’s not hopeless…”

 

Sam ached to say something, anything, to alleviate the pain that pinched at his brother’s face, pulling at his lips and creasing the skin around his eyes. His words croaked when they came, “He’s good…he’s been an assassin for a long time, it’s…”

 

Pain, unbidden fractured Sam’s skull, his eyes bled black, drops of ink spilt into them. A vision unfurled before him, of Castiel shot on the floor, gasping in pain as two agents stood above him. Tears tracked down his cheeks, blood bloomed around him in a pool and a smile – a grin – was on his lips. His thumb pressed down, hard, on a button. Flames burst into the room, consuming it and Castiel was lost behind the wall of fire.

 

Sam blinked back into reality, immediately turning to face the motel. No fire, no smoke. Dean’s hands gripped his shoulders, his face inches from his own. His voice slowly began to cut through the fog. “What is it? What did you see?”

 

“A-an explosion, Cas did it, planned it.”

 

Dean’s hands left his shoulders and he sprinted back down the hill towards the motel. “Dean!”

 

Sam ran after him.

 

Even in the labs, when Dean had been pushed to his limit, he had never run this fast, so hard it hurt, strained muscles he never even knew he had. The back door, still open from their escape, banged against the brick wall in the wind. Hopping over the two cement steps Dean ran through the corridor, launched himself around the corner and burst into the room.

 

A woman with long curls pivoted on her heel, blood oozing from between her fingers that were clamped onto her shoulder. Another agent, a thin rakish man whipped up his gun. Instinct, breeding, kicked into Dean. Green light blinked into the room for one terrifying moment, his eyes hammering into the man’s skull. The assassin’s gun came up; he pressed it to his own temple, lips parting with a horrified gasp. It felt as though a pair of rusted nails were materializing behind Dean’s eyes, warning him to stop. With one final, agonizing pulse of energy, Dean’s eyes shone hotter. The assassin closed his own and pulled the trigger, warm corpse crumbling to the floor. The woman raised her terrified gaze, gun shaking as she aimed it.

 

Vaguely, Dean was aware of Sam behind him, screaming for him to move.

 

Blood trickled from Dean’s nose; shivers wracked his body as a white film descended over the motel room. “What are you?” she asked, finger falling onto the trigger.

 

“Mine.”

 

Dean never even noticed Castiel coming to his feet, only saw him appear behind her, knife plunging into her side, artfully angled between her upper ribs. Castiel grabbed her arm with his free hand, aiming the gun at the ground. It released a shot then thudded to the floor. With a vicious, final twist of his knife the woman’s eyes rolled back into her head, her body slumping so that her ankles rolled to the sides, heels slipping under her.

 

Castiel let her drop, dead, to the carpet.

 

“Dean,” he breathed, that one name uttered so soft and gentle. Castiel stumbled, hands flying to his torso, as though he had forgotten the brutal wound that sucked his life away. His knees gave way driving him to the floor as he slumped against the bed, leaving a trail of blood on the duvet. Dean darted forward, and kneeled before Castiel. Gently he cupped Castiel’s face, “Cas…? Cas…?” Blearily the set of blue eyes looked back at him.

 

“Clear the building…then detonate the explosives.” He choked out, head lolling in Dean’s hands. “There won’t be many remains, just a little DNA…enough for anyone to think that you perished here... Leave me Dean, it’s pointless….”

 

Dean shook his head, thumbs rubbing circles over the tears spilling from Castiel’s glazed eyes, “I’m not leaving, not without you.”

 

Castiel’s breath stuttered in his chest and he blinked away the descending white light for a few feeble seconds, “I’m glad I got to feel you.”

 

Castiel stilled under Dean’s hands.

 

+++

 

The sheets were warm, the sun low on the horizon, bathing the wood cabin in golden light. Dean sighed and reached out, fingernails scratching over a naked chest. There was a hiss of pain, making his eyes fly open. Castiel’s face was close to his, their pillows overlapping and his rueful sigh brushed over Dean’s face. “You need to stop pulling out my stitches.” Levering himself up on his elbow Dean pulled back the covers, noting the dark blue stitch that had been pulled loose, sticking out from Castiel’s tanned skin. “Well I’ll just have to put a new one back in.”

 

Reluctantly Dean rolled out of bed and into the cold mountain air that eked through the wooden boards. Castiel sat up and watched Dean walk over to the small table in their room and rummage through the plastic medical box. His firm muscles were laid bare for Castiel’s scrutiny, his skin obscured only by tight boxer briefs. His cerulean eyes followed the curves and perfect lines of Dean’s strong legs, the slight curve of his back and firm ass. Glancing over his shoulder, Dean grinned sleepily, “Like what you see?”

 

Castiel hummed noncommittally, playfully unbothered as he lay back down on the soft mattress, “You aren’t bad to look at.”

 

Dean clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth, “I’m better than eye candy.” Settling on the edge of the bed Dean threaded a needle in one easy movement. Smirking Dean threw a leg over Castiel’s hip, sitting on top of him. “Now keep still.”

 

Castiel’s swallow was audible as Dean leaned over him, needle grasped loosely between two fingertips. Angling his head Dean pressed feather light kisses over Castiel’s chest, chasing the lines of his ribs, tongue peeking out to gain sensuous tiny tastes. Castiel’s hips jerked involuntarily, a broken groan leaving the base of his throat. A playful nip cautioned him to be still. Dean’s lips smoothed over his skin till they reached the inflamed redness from the broken stitch. Moving back slightly Dean carefully tugged it out. Castiel watched, mouth dry and flesh hot beneath Dean. Ever so gently, as though afraid to beak him, Dean pressed the needle through Castiel’s skin and carefully sewed it back together again. Finishing his work with a neat knot Dean smiled, “There, you’re all fixed.”

 

Reaching out for him, Castiel laid his naked hand on the back of Dean’s neck, pulling him in for a kiss. Their lips slotted together, Dean was insistent and fiery and pushed through his lips, tongue tangling with his. He dominated Castiel’s mouth, tasting and swiping his tongue over Castiel’s, making the ex-assassin shiver and angle his hips up under him. Castiel’s fingers slipped into Dean’s hair, where they twisted and pulled at the short soft locks. When his lungs were burning for air Dean pulled away and memorized the sight of Castiel under him, cheeks flushed crimson against the colorless pillows, his dark hair tousled.

 

“How long did you say we have to stay here for, till they stop looking for us?” Dean whispered. Shifting under Dean, Castiel lay on his side, forcing Dean off him and onto the mattress. Eagerly, Dean tucked himself in under the sheets, cooled skin smoothing over the sleepy heat emanating from Castiel’s flesh, “Three years,” Castiel replied through a smile.

 

Sharp canine pinching his lip Dean pressed his groin flush against Castiel’s and rolled his hips in a hard unforgiving roll. Castiel retaliated by splaying his dexterous fingers over Dean’s chest, fingertip playing with his nipple. Shivering from the sensation Dean moaned then licked his lips, the flesh swollen from their kiss, “I’m fine with that. I just feel sorry for Sam, cooped up with us here going at it like rabbits.”

 

Castiel scoffed, eyes fond as he stared into the luminescence of Dean’s green gaze. Slotting his hands into Castiel’s, Dean’s thumb rubbed at the scars, soothing the hurts away.

 

 

Castiel’s wristwatch was buried outside by the stream. Time didn’t matter, because Dean was wildfire, and Castiel is still finding his way out of the ashes.

**Author's Note:**

> This was completed for the Reverse bang, with the prompt coming from the lovely Artmetica. Check out her masterpost to see more art.
> 
> I do have an idea for a sequel, so if you'd like to see more leave a comment. :)


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